96 Hours (13 page)

“Yes, she did. How’s the old man? Is he hanging in there?”

Mrs. Baker gestured toward the TV corner with her chin. “He’s been over there watching those news reports for hours. I don’t know what he hopes to learn. I can’t do it. I just can’t watch all that pain and destruction. Not while my boy might be in the thick of it, you know?”

Abby nodded, absently wondering if Mr. Baker hoped to get a glimpse of his son running in front of the camera as he emerged from the rubble. Everybody handled stress in their own way. She wondered what she’d do in the Bakers’ situation. What would Erica do, for that matter? Brian? Michael? Corinne? Most likely, everybody would do something different.

She walked Mrs. Baker back to her cot, keeping an arm around her the whole time. “What can I do? Do you need anything?”

Mrs. Baker sat down with the heaving sigh of an exhausted person. “Would you be a dear and see if my husband wants anything to eat or drink? He hasn’t had anything since coffee this morning and he really needs to eat, but—” She swallowed and a wave of shame crossed her face. “I don’t think I can bear being around those news reports. They give me too many horrible things to imagine, you understand what I’m saying?”

“Absolutely.” Abby squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll take care of it.” She studied Mr. Baker as she approached him. He had the same worried, worn-out appearance as his wife. His clothes were wrinkled along with his face, and the expectation of bad news was as clear as day in his deep-set brown eyes. “Hey, handsome,” she said when she got to him.

He looked up at her, blinked three times until he registered the face. “Abby. Hey there.” He looked pleased to see her as he held out his enormous hand and engulfed her smaller one. “Sit. How’ve you been? I heard you were sprung from this place.”

She grinned. “I was. Corinne said she asked you and the Mrs. before the guys that ended up coming with us.”

“Such a sweet woman, that one.”

“She sure is.”

“She did offer us her home.” He swallowed and spared a glance in his wife’s direction. “Tonya didn’t want to be away from the phones, since this is the number our daughter has. I tried to tell her we could just give her a different number, but my wife likes to stay put in a crisis. I think it helps calm her down a little bit.”

Abby nodded, wishing there was something she could say to ease his heartbreak.

“Can you believe this shit?” he asked her, waving a finger at the television. “How does this happen? Four different planes. How the hell does this happen?”

Abby shook her head as her eyes were pulled unwillingly towards the screen. Live shots ran nonstop, the spot where the twin towers once stood now just a pile of concrete and debris. Though the scene was calmer than two days ago, there were still people milling around behind the reporter, looking lost and wandering aimlessly. Some cried. Some looked blank. Flyers with photos of the missing had begun to appear in the background of every shot—covering fences, telephone poles, and the sides of buildings like wallpaper. The whole thing was still surreal to Abby. “I don’t know,” she finally said in response to Mr. Baker’s question. “I just don’t know.”

They watched together for a few quiet moments, neither registering that he still held tightly to Abby’s hand. She was happy to give him that contact, even if it helped only a little. When a commercial break finally came, she squeezed his big fingers. “Hey, a little birdie told me you haven’t eaten anything today. Am I going to have to spank you?” She winked and got a small chortle out of him.

“I’m just not hungry.”

“I’m sure you’re not. I get it. But you should try to eat something anyway to help keep up your strength. Even if it’s just a banana or an apple.”

“I know.”

“I’ll go find you something, all right? Wait here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said as she stood. “Unfortunately.”

After delivering a banana, a granola bar, and some orange juice to Mr. Baker, waiting for him to eat some, and tossing a thumbs up toward his wife, Abby took the opportunity to snag an empty seat at the phone bank and call her mother. This time, she tried the office phone first. Michelle Hayes picked up on the second ring.

“Is everything okay?” The worry in her voice was apparent, given she’d just spoken to Abby the previous night.

“Everything’s fine, Mom. I just—” It came upon her without warning. Emotion. Sadness. Anger. Her voice stuck in her throat and she said in a whisper, “I just wanted to hear your voice. I
needed
to hear your voice.”

“Oh, baby. My sweet baby.” Michelle knew her daughter well, knew when something was weighing on her, and wanted nothing more than to wrap her up in a warm, safe hug. “It’s going to be okay, Abby.”

“I know.” Abby sniffed, pulled herself together, embarrassed to be seen crying. She swiped at her eyes. “It’s just so horrible. There are people here who can’t get a hold of their families, people who have friends in New York that they can’t find.” She quickly and quietly relayed the story of the Bakers, her eyes filling in sympathy as she did so.

“Oh, those poor people,” her mother said, and Abby could envision her shaking her head, her fingertips against her chin in her usual pose of concern. “I’m afraid New York is going to lose a lot of her people. Even her emergency crews. Cops, firefighters, EMTs. It’s so hard to fathom, Abby. We were all trying to wrap our brains around it last night as we watched the news. Thousands of people.
Thousands.
It’s almost beyond comprehension.”

They talked for a few more minutes, mostly about the confusion and inability to understand why somebody would do such a thing. Michelle told her New York was still a mess, people running around like chickens with their heads cut off (one of her favorite expressions) and that it would be weeks, maybe months, maybe longer before anything was even close to resembling “the way it was” before the eleventh. The sorrow in her voice was heartbreaking. For somebody who had grown up in New York, who considered the city to be in her blood, the recent events were akin to a death—or more accurately, a murder. Michelle and so many others like her had been plunged into a state of horrified, disbelieving grief.

Aware of the people waiting for the phones, Abby bid her mother goodbye, promising to call again soon. “I love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, baby. Stay safe.”

Across the front lobby, Abby could see Corinne scurrying about like a small animal, handing out supplies, hugging a small boy, smiling reassuringly at a haggard-looking older woman. Shaking her head in awe, Abby wondered how the Gander native did it, how she kept smiling, kept helping, kept calm amidst the chaos that had become her quiet little town. If ever there was a walking, talking inspiration, Corinne MacDougal was it.

“Can I help?” Abby asked as she approached and took a large box of fruit out of Corinne’s hands.

“Oh, Abby, thank you, dear. How are you today?”

“Hanging in there. What about you? Did you get any sleep last night? I barely saw you this morning before you were off again.”

“I know. I’d napped a bit here yesterday, so I was fine. I wanted to get an early start because I knew Bill was bringing by more eggs and Bill Rigby is the earliest riser I’ve ever known.” She said this in an affectionate tone and Abby absently wondered if anybody ever rubbed Corinne the wrong way.

“I hope you know how much we all,” she made a gesture encompassing the whole area, “appreciate what you’ve done for us. I don’t know what we’d all have done without your help.”

Corinne scoffed and waved a dismissive hand, just as Abby expected she would.

“Listen, we’re going to cook you dinner tonight.”

“What? Oh, no.”

“No arguing,” Abby said. “You’ve been so great to us, it’s the least we can do.”

She fished around a bit about likes and dislikes, got directions to the nearest grocery store, then collected Brian and Michael and filled them in on her plan to make the MacDougals dinner. They both agreed heartily, not only because it was a nice thank you gesture but because it also gave them something to focus on for the rest of the day. Boredom was beginning to set in for all of them.

“Let’s stop back at the house first and see if Erica wants to go with,” Abby said from the backseat.

Brian snorted from his spot behind the wheel. “Really? She didn’t seem to want anything to do with us earlier. Why do you think she’d change her mind now?”

Abby shrugged, looked out the window. “I don’t know. I just think we should ask.”

“I think she’d just as soon wish us all away. She’s cold, that one.”

“I don’t know,” Abby said again, leaving the rest of her thoughts unvoiced.

Michael spoke up from the passenger seat. “You know, Erica is very much like my younger sister, Claire.” He was soft-spoken, causing Abby to sit forward in her seat to hear him, his accent almost musical. “She gets that from a lot of people who make snap judgments about her just from being around her for a day.” He glanced at Brian. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Claire just isn’t good around a lot of people. It drains her. She likes to be alone. She craves silence. It doesn’t mean she’s cold or a bitch or any of the other myriad things people label her. It’s just who she is and those who know her and love her understand that. I think Erica is the same way. We just don’t know her well enough to realize it.”

Brian shrugged, making it clear what he thought of the analysis. Abby pursed her lips and absorbed Michael’s words, nodding slightly.

“I’ll just run in,” Abby said as they pulled into the MacDougals’ driveway. “Be right back.”

She didn’t know why she half-expected to find Erica on the couch in the living room watching TV. Maybe because that’s where Abby herself would be? But the first floor was quiet. It wasn’t until she entered the kitchen that she heard the strange hum and the rhythmic pounding sound—a steady thump-thump-thump filtering up from the basement. Her shoes made no sound as she descended the stairs and peeked around to her left. The sight stopped her in her tracks, sent her heart racing, and stole all moisture from her mouth.

The pounding was caused by Erica’s sneakered feet hitting the base of Kate MacDougal’s underused treadmill as she ran. Running wasn’t something Abby had enjoyed in her life. Ever. She felt that it took all the fun out of an activity. She avoided sports like basketball and field hockey because they required too much running. She preferred volleyball. Maybe a little badminton. Golf was a good one. No running required. She never understood the “runner’s high” her jogging friends spoke of, but looking at Erica now, she thought she almost got it. Her face was relaxed. Her body was working hard, but damn if she wasn’t almost smiling. Navy blue shorts from Walmart hugged that muscular behind of hers and her simple white T-shirt was nearly soaked through. All the rich copper hair was pulled back into a ponytail and it flounced from side to side with each stride. Erica’s pale skin glistened with perspiration, her arms pumped in an easy rhythm, and Abby realized that Erica ran often. She looked so at ease, so relaxed that Abby hated to interrupt her. Instead, she stood quietly and watched for several moments, wondering if, in Erica’s mind, she was running
from
something or
to
something.

Then she tried to remember the last time she’d seen anything quite so sexy.

Back in the car, she told the guys, “Nope. She’s busy. Let’s go.”

Brian wanted to ask why her cheeks were all flushed, but thought better of it.

Chapter 10

Erica felt reborn. De-stressed, centered. She often forgot how much a good run could reboot her system. Something about the adrenaline, the pumping blood, the sweat made her feel alive again. And with the feel of life came the perception of control, whether real or imagined. Running always left her feeling grounded and in charge. She came up the basement steps, ready to face people again, just as Brian, Michael, and Abby were hauling grocery bags in from the car. Abby took in the black workout pants and the baby blue shirt and blurted, “How many outfits did you buy the other day? Wasn’t I with you the whole time?”

“This is my last one,” Erica said. “Remind me to ask Corinne if she’d mind if we did some laundry tonight. I can throw all of our stuff in together and I’m sure we’d have a good-sized load.” She noticed the bags and asked, “What’s going on?”

“I thought we could make dinner for Corinne and Tim,” Abby said, trying hard not to stare. Erica had obviously showered, her ponytail still damp, and she smelled like baby powder. “As sort of a thank you, small as it is, for all they’ve done for us.”

“That’s a great idea. What are we having?” She peered into the bags as the guys deposited them onto the kitchen counter and went to grab the last of the bunch.

“Chicken, potatoes, corn,” Abby rattled off.

“Cool. How are we cooking the chicken?”

“No idea.”

“What?”

“I have no idea, but I think Michael does.”

“You decided to cook for somebody, but . . .”

Abby nodded sheepishly. “I don’t cook.”

Erica burst into laughter. “Why am I not surprised?” She shook her head, then began taking things out of the bags and setting them on the counter, checking her resources and seeing what she had to work with. She opened a few of Corinne’s cupboards, the fridge, checking for spices and seasonings, then gave one nod of approval as the guys set down the last two bags. “What time will the MacDougals be home?”

“I said we’d be ready to eat by six?” Abby phrased it as a question, her expression hopeful.

“Okay. We can work with this, no problem.”

“Wait, you can cook?” Abby asked.

“I can.”

“Why am I surprised?”

Erica shot her a mysteriously sexy grin, shrugged, and began gathering her ingredients. Michael offered his assistance, promising he knew his way around a kitchen, so Erica took him up on it. Abby and Brian would be sous chefs. It was after four, so Erica decided there was plenty of time to bake the chicken. Mashed potatoes and seasoned corn rounded out the menu. There were also ingredients for a salad.